


Hang

by Jinmukang



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Hanging, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Restraints, Strappado, Torture, Unresolved, Waking up Restrained, Whump, Whumptober 2020, no.1 - Freeform, shackled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: When Dick wakes up, he's on his side; his cheek pressed against cold and grimy cement and his shoulders pulsing with a discomforting ache.He groans, his body feeling like tar has been stuffed between each of his joints—which makes it difficult to begin moving. His stomach rolls, and the sharp pain near the temple of his skull isn't helping much.What… happened?
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946413
Comments: 23
Kudos: 105
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Hang

**Author's Note:**

> And such, begins whumptober :3
> 
> No warnings other than what's on the tags. Starting off this month with a darker one, so keep that in mind.
> 
> So far, I'm 17 prompts ahead of schedule. My hope is to finish whumptober this year! It's mostly Dick centric, but I have other batkids here and there. Anyway, please enjoy this shameless whump!

When Dick wakes up, he's on his side; his cheek pressed against cold and grimy cement and his shoulders pulsing with a discomforting ache. 

He groans, his body feeling like tar has been stuffed between each of his joints—which makes it difficult to begin moving. His stomach rolls, and the sharp pain near the temple of his skull isn't helping much. 

What… happened?

He remembers… he remembers patrol. Leaving his apartment and swinging towards the streets to fight the constant stream of crime Blüdhaven is so willing to supply. His memories get hazy the more he tries to think about what happened during and after the patrol, making the pain in his head twinge torturously. 

Deciding that there's not much he can remember at the moment, he resolves to try and figure out his situation—because even though he has little memory, just the information that he was on patrol is enough for him to realize he's in his Nightwing suit. He recognizes the familiar skin tight feeling of the kevlar. 

What he notices immediately with just a few agonizingly slow movements is that his gauntlets and boots are missing. Which is not good. He twitches his nose and he relaxes only slightly when he feels the sharp edges of his mask. His anxiety, however, only rises when he realizes that his hands are stuck behind his back.

Okay. Captured and restrained. The cuffs are heavy and thick, at least a few centimeters thick. There's a small length of chain between the cuffs that can hardly be called a "length". There's not much space between his two wrists, perhaps only three or four thick chain links spanning between the shackles. 

He goes to move his fingers and test just how tight the shackles are on his wrists, but he realizes quickly that his fingers are stuck; curled into an uncomfortable fist and held in place with something cold and plastic. 

Okay. Alright. This is fine. Dick can still work with this.

He opens his eyes, slowly, to not agitate his headache nor his rolling stomach. He figures that if no one has revealed themselves to Dick so far then he must be alone. He hasn't exactly been quiet walking up, which is something Bruce might be disappointed by but come on. There's only so much Dick can do when confronted with what's definitely wavering effects of some sort of tranquilizer. Nausea, aches, groggy and slow movements, feeling like shit in general. 

The first thing he sees through half-lidded eyes is the grimy floor he's laying on top of, and since there's really not much to see here he moves on to the rest of the room.

And scratch that. There's not a whole lot to see in the room at all… at least, not from his position on the ground. Nothing but walls in front of him that are made of dark brick stone. 

Dick shifts, curling up slightly to get his shoulder positioned under him so he can work his way up so he's sitting. It takes a minute, a minute filled with panting breaths and barely contained gagging that makes his stomach want to show him what he had for dinner. Eventually, he makes it, his back pressed against the wall and his legs strewn out in front of him and his head leaned back so he can catch his breath and try to make his stomach settle.

Don't throw up, Dick. He doesn't want to be covered in his own sickness by the time his captors decide to show themselves. It  _ will _ be totally embarrassing and Dick had a cool, pretty boy reputation to keep up after all. 

And besides, when he blinks his eyes to look at the rest of the room he's in he finds that it's rather small and compact; throwing up here would make the smell linger horribly. 

His stomach rolls and he decides to do his best to not think about throwing up. Starting… now.

He brushes his eyes throughout the room he's woken up in. Besides the stone wall and the heavy looking door, there's not much to see besides a singular bulb installed in the center of the room above him. 

That; and a chain hanging right besides it. 

He frowns at the chain. The end has a singular clip hook attached to it. From where it's hanging—about three feet from the ground—it travels up to some sort of makeshift pulley system; composed of various eye hooks that run along the ceiling so the other end of the chain latches next to the door. 

The clip at the end looks strong too. Something that would be used for lifting heavy equipment.

Now that he's studied the room to its extent, he shifts so he's looking over his shoulders to his hands. Duct tape, he finds, is what's keeping his hands in a fist; multiple layers of aluminum colored tape preventing him from messing with the shackles or breaking a joint to slip out of them. 

Alrighty then. 

He should probably work on getting his hands in front of him. Just to give himself a little bit more of a fighters chance. 

And of course, when he goes to do so, his hands are stopped by another freaking chain that he hasn't noticed till now. It's attached to the tether between his wrists and then it connects to the wall; like a leash, but an infuriatingly short one. There's hardly any give. He's stuck to the wall and he's not going anywhere. 

He lets his head fall back against the bricks behind him once again, cursing that sometimes criminals are smart about things. 

Then, with that flawless dramatic timing most criminals often have, the door opens.

Dick brings his legs up to his chest, positioning himself so he's less vulnerable, as a group of three masked men—judging by their body types—make their way inside the room he's trapped in. He glares at the one that steps closer to Nightwing as the other two hang back. One by the door, one by the chain connecting to the wall. 

One man, who must surely be the leader, stops just outside of Dick's kicking range and kneels down to the balls of his feet. The balaclava he's wearing covers his entire face besides a section for his dark eyes, but Dick gets the feeling he's smirking. 

"Alright," Dick says, shifting so he's sitting straighter while making sure his tone is unbothered and bored and not at all as groggy as he feels, "let's get this out of the way. M'names Nightwing, I like long walks on the beach, and I'm not going to tell you any secret identities."

"Which would be a shame," the man in front of him says, "if we cared for secret identities."

A bolt of confusion shoots through Dick at the sentence as the man stands up, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his head. He isn't interested in secret identities? That's… a new one. Most villains who capture him practically beg for his name, that way they can get  _ Batman's _ name. The first time Dick's been beaten with the reasons of secret identities, it was scary, sure, but now that he's older he's just sorta… gotten used to it at this point. A villain who wants to know his name is a predictable villain. 

One who wants something different is a dangerous villain.

"You see, Nightwing," the man continues, "all we want is information. We have a couple questions for you, and if you cooperate you won't be hurt."

There's no  _ we'll let you go _ . Just  _ you won't be hurt _ . Dick doesn't know who these guys are or what they want, but whatever it is, it can't be good. 

Dick flashes a toothy smile. "Oh, a few questions? Is that all? Ask away."

"Does the name  _ The Silence _ ring any bells?" The man asks, and Dick fights a scowl because it  _ does _ ring a few bells.

They are an international, underground human trafficking organization. Grabbing kids from all over the globe and selling them to various rich assholes for a multitude of disgusting reasons. Dick's fought them before, in fact, they had a station in Blüdhaven that he worked with the police to raid and rescue the kids trapped inside. 

But that was three weeks ago. 

"It sounds familiar," Dick replies slowly, wishing the man wasn't wearing the stupid balaclava so he could judge the facial expressions better. He can't tell anything with just the eyes. "But they were taken down weeks ago."

Keep it vague. Do not let them know that you know more than the bare minimum.

"We both know that's not true, Nightwing," the man says with a sigh. "The Silence has reaches across the entire globe and for the past decade they have gone entirely unnoticed. Until now, where you took down the base in Blüdhaven twenty days ago." He pauses, then gives Dick a hard look. "Until when, just a day ago, another base in San Francisco was taken down by none other than Red Robin and all those other powered brats."

Shit.  _ Shit _ . They caught on way quicker than what anyone was planning. The moves on them were supposed to be "accidental". Like Dick "stumbling" upon the warehouse, expecting to find some other crime and instead finding a massive group of child kidnappers and sellers. Like Tim and his team just happening to catch wind of the base and taking it out because it was in his city. Bruce really isn't going to be happy about this one. Dick really hopes Jason's okay. He's the one who's undercover and getting the base locations. 

"Look, I don't know anything about this, I just saw what was happening and took it out of my city," Dick says, flexing his fingers in the tape they're wrapped in. This is going to get messy fast, he can tell. 

"Anyone with a brain can see the bats are connected to this," the man says with a sharp edge to his voice. "And I'm not in the mood to pretend you don't know anything. What we want to know, Nightwing, is where you're getting your information and how many other bases you know about."

So… Jason hasn't been found out yet. Good. That's good. There's no way Dick will sell him out, not when they have close to fifteen other major locations and are currently working with the local authorities to take them out in one fell swoop. 

Dick takes a breath. "I really have nothing to tell you."

The eyes of his captor hardens and Dick fights to keep his heart steady. He knows where it goes from here. Even before the leader motions to the other two men. "Then you have decided to make this difficult for yourself."

Then, the two other men approach. The moment one of them gets close enough, Dick lashes out with his legs, kicking him in the shins. But, because this guy is 1.  _ Huge _ and 2.  _ Has a friend _ , Dick's quickly overpowered as his shoulders are grabbed and he's shoved so far forward his nose almost slams into his knees. His shoulders protest angrily as his wrists remain attached to the wall by the short leash, but that discomfort doesn't last long before his shackles are disconnected from the wall and he's hefted up to his feet by two pairs of meaty hands on his biceps. 

His head spins as they frogmarch him past the leader into the middle of the room, right next to where the chain is dangling. The lightheadedness quickly fades though with a dosage of adrenaline as he's held stiffly in place. 

When his hands are grabbed and he's turned so his back is to the chain, he fights down a fit of panic and desperately ignores his rolling stomach. "What are you doing?" 

There's the clinking of metal links, a snap, then one moment turns into another and Dick is left standing in the middle of the room with the slack between his shackles attached to the hanging chain. 

He glares at the leader and watches out of the corner of his eyes as the two other men return to their positions—one by the door, the other by where the very chain Dick is now tethered to is latched to the wall. 

He has a very bad feeling about this.

A very bad feeling that he knows exactly where this is going. 

"Last chance, Nightwing," the leader says, "tell us what we want to know and you won't be harmed."

Dick shuffles his feet and rolls his shoulders, mentally preparing himself for what's about to happen. This is going to  _ suck _ .

"I'm telling you, I don't know anything," Dick tries, making his voice sound as genuine as he can so hopefully they believe him and not torture him for the next who knows how long. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, he has no such luck as the leader turns towards the man by the chain and nods. 

Now Dick, he isn't lightweight. Sure, he's short for his age and quite lean compared to most people, but that flat stomach and slim shoulders are made entirely out of  _ muscle _ . And muscles are, in fact,  _ heavy _ . Yeah, he's nowhere near Bruce's record weight of 210 pounds, nor around Jason's  _ outstanding _ 230, but come on. Dick's almost six feet of pure 145 pounds and that's  _ heavy _ . 

Which is why it shocks him so much that Mr Man over there takes the chain from the wall it's connected too and manages to successfully  _ yank _ the chain down so hard that Dick's feet leave the floor for a minute. He just manages to curl up with his back keeping contact with his fisted hands, but without the purchase of his fingers added with the weight of his own body, he quickly finds his shoulders burning with strain. 

Dick's an acrobat. He can hang from many positions safely for long periods of time, but there's nothing safe about strappado. His shoulders are on fire, and it's only been a few seconds. His chest is tight and the metal bites into the skin of his wrists, and just when he feels like his ribcage is going to burst he finds his knees hitting the floor roughly. 

He's painfully aware of every nerve and cell in his shoulders, he can feel the blood pulsing with a sharp agony that has him swallowing gasps. 

And of course, before he can even recover, the chain is yanked again loudly and violently that has him stumbling to his feet, his wrists held so high above him that he's forced to bend forward and stand on his tip toes. 

Dick's flexible. He can twist and contort unlike anyone other. 

But let it be put on the record that some joints are  _ not _ meant to bend certain ways. The shoulders shouldn't be pulled back and up like this. 

It's agonizing. A pain that's way more biting than what he expected. He hasn't been tortured like this before—which admittedly is a terrible thing to say because it implies he's been tortured before but in other ways… which is a correct assumption, but  _ still _ —and honest to the gods and to mother nature, it's like his entire upper body is on fire. 

His stomach threatens rebellion as he's held upright in this new stress position. His chin is suddenly grabbed and Dick soon finds himself glaring through the strands of his bangs at the man in charge of this fun play date. Dick wants to vomit on him. 

He keeps that just to his thoughts. He'd actually rather not. 

"Where did you get your information?" The man asks, eyes cold and glaring. Dick bites back a wince as the chain jerks slightly, sending pings of pain into his shoulders and neck. 

"No one," Dick hisses through clenched teeth. "No one told me. I was scoping out the warehouse and just happened to find- Ahg-!"

His chin is released and he's in the air with one mighty tug. He chokes back a cry as he's suspended awkwardly above the ground. It's even more painful this time. It came more of a surprise and he didn't get to prepare himself. His abs strain as he attempts to curl up to relieve a little bit of the tension in the socket's of his shoulders that are bending  _ way _ too far in the wrong direction. He just manages to catch sight of the two other men both holding the chain before his vision is obscured by the leader approaching him. 

If Dick wasn't so concerned with not having his shoulders ripped from the socket's, he could kick him in the face right now. 

But he doesn't, he can only force himself to not cry out and keep his face a straining level of nonchalant as the man speaks above the ringing in his ears. 

"Where did you get your information?"

Dick grinds his teeth and shakes his head. 

Which is thankfully answer enough, Dick's pretty sure if he opens his mouth he'll scream. 

Though, because it's the answer they don't want, Dick's lowered just a bit and then jerked right back up.

He'd be lying if he says he doesn't release a choked off shout. It's  _ horrible _ . The strain, the tugging, the constricting, the weight. It's a miracle he hasn't dislocated a shoulder or two yet. 

He's held up there for what feels like an eternity but in reality must have been just another minute or so before he's lowered back to his feet. He tries to keep standing, but his mind is so hazed over with pain that he falls to his knees once more, his heels hitting his ass as he leans forward and gags—the nausea in his stomach finally winning. 

Thankfully, it's more like just an acidy spit-up. No past meals to be seen. Regardless, there's a horrible taste in his mouth to match the horrible ache in his body and the humiliation of throwing up at the feet of a captor. 

A hand in his hair. A tug on the chain.

"Where did you get your information."

Dick doesn't bother answering, and the force of the chain lifting him up is so great that he feels the back of his biceps hit his head right before…

_ Crack _ .

Pure, unhinged agony pounds into him as his left shoulder finally gives out. He yells through clenched teeth, his feet scrambling for purchase that isn't there, and then, there's a second horrible  _ pop _ as his other shoulder dislocates as well, and he's not able to hold back this scream. 

Dick's hanging now, his wrists fully above his head in the worst way imaginable, gasping choking on his spit—his upper arms and the area around his neck burn like hellfire. He can't breathe. He can't even try. It's all pain pain pain  _ pain _ that sends bolts to his fingertips and down his ribs. The meat of his shoulders press against his ears, and all he can do is dangle as his brain tries to process the horrible signals that's being sent though every burning nerve. 

"Was wondering when that would happen," someone says all faraway. The leader or one of the other two, it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that his eyes are blurry and he can't focus on anything other than the dislocated joints that are already becoming oh-so-worryingly numb. 

He's dislocated his shoulders before. He  _ has _ . But this is different. This is awful. This is… this is…

"Where did you get your information, Nightwing," the leader yells through the haze. Dick blinks rapidly, trying to focus, trying to find the present though the maze that is torture. His head hangs, the nerves in his neck feeling like he's pinched them all individually, but he does manage to at least look up and mumble. 

"What was that?" Someone asks. 

Dick tries again, but only mumbles and grunts escape. 

The leader leans forward and Dick does the only thing he can do, he spits the biggest wad of phlegm he could gather right onto his enemy's face. 

The leader howls in disgust, yelling something too loud for Dick to process. He only has a moment to silently celebrate a victory when the tension holding him suspended in the air is suddenly lost, causing him to once again fall to the floor. Only this time, he crumbles all the way down, landing awkwardly onto his feet, down to his knees, over to his side and right on top of his right shoulder. 

Everything goes white then. Ringing. Nothing but lightning bolts of angry, poisonous red as the pain envelops him. 

He gasps, choking on air, trying to crawl back to his eyes and ears to see what is going on around him, trying to ignore the invisible knives that slice into his upper body. 

He fails. Dramatically so. He passes out from the pain, and the pain remains even in sleep. 

So much so, that the only reason he can tell time has moved when he wakes up is that he's no longer in the middle of the room, but shoved back against the wall. He's laying on his side, but he can't feel anything in his shoulders. His fingers itch below the layers of tape and he doesn't have any strength left to even check to see if he's connected to the wall again. 

He releases a shaky breath and remains limp on the ground, praying that someone will come and that this will all be over soon. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a medical professional nor an expert in medieval torture. so if some of this sounded wrong, it's because I wrote this is 2 days and wasn't willing to put more time into it. Thanks for reading!
> 
> I would love any and all comments <3


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